


I'll Hold You My Love (By the Throat)

by jenna_thorn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Community: fandom_stocking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: Bull rose and extended his hand, correct as any courtier, Dorian took it in his with a nod in return, and they left the tavern together, heads high and hands intertwined.





	

Evelyn tossed him the letter, the elegant calligraphy obscuring the message. “Something about that is giving me a headache. Can you put a glyph on paper?”

Dorian caught it one handed, dropping the other to the reins looped over his knee to hold the scroll open. “Well, parchment, yes, but it won’t survive the – “. The words before him shifted from elegant art to actual content, and he lost track of his sentence. “Oh. Erm, hm…”

The horses plodded on. “Take your time,“ Evelyn prompted after some distance had passed and Doran was no longer glaring at the sheet in his hands but rather staring at the horizon.

“Yes, yes. Not much here that we didn’t already have, actually, which gives me reason to simultaneously praise and fear our Nightingale.” But he didn’t return the parchment to her and that night, he sat before a campfire with too little light to read the crowded script and toyed with the rough edge.

Bull sat beside him, shadowing his hands but lightening his heart. He planted a kiss in Dorian’s hair, and Dorian didn’t even ruffle.

“I, ah, I don’t recall telling you much of my exploits,” Dorian said, quietly enough to be ignored by the others. It was true. Bull had a way of describing his previous partners that was funny and dirty in the best possible way. Dorian knew it was deliberate, was anything that Bull did not deliberate? Because Dorian won every comparison– his legs were better than the dancer in Dairsmuid, his eyes more beautiful than the barmaid’s in Tantervale, his mouth wrapped around Bull more tightly than the Navarran princeling.

So while Bull’s varied history was regularly revisited for humor, for creative ideas, for a list of mistakes not to be repeated, Dorian’s history was as shadowed and furtive as, well, his history. Half-remembered drunken brothel debauchery was relatively plebian and stolen moments in a hidden alcove didn’t compare to the night that Bull and the Captain of a competing mercenary band took it on themselves to educate an vocally appreciative audience in the intricacies of fellatio.

“We’re going after someone you knew?”

“I know everyone of any import.” His tone was lofty, airy, haughty. It was also entirely a mask.

Bull repeated, with exactly the same inflection as before, “We’re going after someone you fucked?

Evelyn snorted under her hood.

“Stop faking sleep or we won’t talk around you.”

She pulled the edge of the hood over her face, all the way to her mouth, then said, “Hey, only one thing to know. You going to hold back, Dorian?”

“Of course not.”

“Then that’s all you need to tell us. You got us, we’ve got you.”

And for her, it was that simple, albeit bitter. She abandoned her family when they abandoned her at the circle, and other than an argument just before the attack at Haven that had Josephine overly formal around her until that horrific night, she hadn’t seemed to look back. But then, Evelyn had a single minded focus that at times seemed like deliberate avoidance of anything she couldn’t immolate. Dorian could admit to himself, if to no one else, that he could respect that.

But he caught Varric’s eye as he ducked into the tent and Varric nodded, his quick silver face serious, though not grim. The advantage of working with another range fighter was that they could cover one another, metaphorically as well as physically. Bull, bless his bloodthirsty heart, could be twenty feet away, covered in entrails and grinning, but he and Varric would watch one another even as they covered Evelyn while she moseyed over bodies and through bloody grass to pull the rift closed, or Bull rolling in gore, or Cassandra stomping grimly over anyone who dared to confront her. And so he saw Varric, watching over them all, Varric, who did not notice the slightest visual distortion behind him and Dorian couldn’t cast the barrier in time because of the handful of grey ash in his own face.

\--::--

He came to spitting gritty powder.

Before him stood an unknown mage in painfully familiar robes. The stranger turned and squatted to his heels, to come down to where Dorian lay sprawled on a cold stone floor and with the movement came recognition. One more face from Dorian’s past, one more Venatori, one more echo of Tevinter’s hidden vices come out to play in the southern light.

“Dorian Pavus.” He rolled the vowels, exaggerating his accent. Dorian refused to let himself yearn for the sound of his name in a familiar voice. Raelius traced Dorian’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Still beautiful. But you used to be smart.” He slid his hand down, across Dorian’s jawline, to close lightly around his throat, his thumb resting familiarly, intimately, in the hollow at Dorian’s collarbone. “You also used to like it a little rough? That change, too?” he whispered into Dorian’s ear. “Or have you just started rolling with the dogs here in the South? Have you got a Fereldan’s paw prints on your back these days?”

Dorian felt his lip split again when he smiled. Raelius leaned back and blinked, and he could feel the pull of dried blood from below his mouth to his chin, so he may have had blood on his teeth. Not that alarming, he would have thought, but Raelius had been travelling more comfortably than Dorian himself, it seemed.

The door scratched open with a pause that indicated a broken hinge before a hood poked in. Raelius rose, a little creakily, to full height, then delivered a vicious kick to Dorian where he lay. Dorian gasped shallowly in an attempt to refill his lungs without actually moving his ribs and in the quiet after the scraping crash of the door, he realized that Varric was suspiciously quiet, snoring in a regular pattern, not his usual irregular racket. The cold stone beneath him chilled his stiffening muscles. He stretched out, barely brushing the edge of Varric’s boot with his knee.

“Old friend?” Varric asked.

“Define friend.” He stretched carefully, checking for break, crack, or just bruise.

“Acquaintance of some level of comradery?”

“Social peer but academic inferior. To his mind, I suppose we were equals. Maybe rivals. Then, of course. Obviously we are rivals now.”

“Was he really going to steal a kiss?

“Don’t be ridiculous. A quick fumble in the hall to the kitchen, perhaps, but kissing? No, kissing is for…” for public displays of affection, he thought.

“Wives,” Varric said.

“Others.” Dorian compromised, bending halfway to the truth.

“Yeah, well, speaking of others, how far out are they?”

“Who?”  
“Sparkler, did you take a hit to the head?”

“Not much of one ..oh, but of course Evelyn would pursue us.”

“Exactly, face it, these guys screwed up royally. They got Evie’s favorite storyteller and the Iron Bull’s favorite chew toy. Harding’ll come after my satchel, if not me, exactly.”

Dorian made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh, but was closer than he had expected. “Cassandra would chase that satchel to the sea. And Sister Nightingale for everything else in it. We’ve got a rescue coming, then.”

From the solid cave wall behind them, Cole asked, “Did you forget me?”

“No, kid, I won’t ever forget you,” Varric said. Dorian held his hands away from his body, grateful for Cole’s dagger even as he remained wary of the greenish tint shining along the edge. Cole sliced through the heavy rope like cotton thread. “You alone?”

“No, I am with you.” Cole answered placidly as he freed Varric.

Varric twitched then said, “Who came with you to get us?” Dorian watched as Varric rose and shook out his hands. He stood, his weight on one leg, but Dorian’s feet were pins-and-needles, too. Varric kicked open the door only to duck involuntarily as an arrow with blessedly familiar spotted fletching zipped over his head. Bull’s shout echoed into the hollowed space from outside.

\--::--

Evelyn shouldered open the flap of the tent, nodded at Dorian, then dropped her eyes to the bundle of mage at her feet. “Well, crap, I hadn’t meant to leave any of them alive long enough to surrender.” Varric tied off the mage’s hands at the elbow, wrist, and shoulder and Evelyn looked vaguely impressed. She toed him and he snorted to consciousness. “Do we need him for intel?”

“Not particularly.” Varric answered. “Maybe ransom? We could boost Josie’s fancy candy fund.”

“Oh, you know, Josie likes her budgets tidy and her line items neat more than even sweets.” Evelyn squatted in front of a travelling desk, rifling through papers, keeping her eyes down. “She’d have to get a new ledger for ransom, so that’s another inconvenience. ”

Raelius’ eyes widened as she shrugged and he turned toward Dorian. “Dorian, my dear, we could-“

Dorian whirled. “You overestimate your importance to your family, your country, and my good humor.”

Raelius cut his eyes to the left, where Evelyn was ignoring him, then to Varric, who was watching with a smirk. “Dorian, darling, you know me. We could … .Don’t you remember what we shared?”

“Frankly, you aren’t that memorable.” That was an exit line to be proud of, so Dorian did, coming to a stop just outside the perimeter of the camp, for he actually had nowhere to go.

Evelyn followed, still ruffling papers, probably randomly at this point. “Ransom? Or strip him and let the buzzards feast? Heat of battle is one thing, but it’s harder to kill them when they are tied up.”

“Not for his cadre. Bloodletting is easier when they don’t fight back.” He refused to rub at the inside of his elbow, but the urge was there.

“Yeah well, I’m not Venatori, or Tevinter, or bloodthirsty.” She paused. Dorian couldn’t hold back his grin, even as it pulled open the cuts on his lips and jaw. She snorted, and said, “Okay, yeah, I’ll grant, I’ll give you bloodthirsty, but …” She broke off as Bull brushed between them, wiping his dagger and sheathing it at his boot.

“Sorry boss, did you want to keep that one?” Bull asked.

Varric’s voice rang from inside the tent. “Dammit, Bull!” Dorian could hear the edges of Cole’s answering murmur, but not the words themselves.

\--::--

At the Herald’s Rest, Bull ran the tips of his sharp nails low on Dorian’s neck, too low to ruffle his hair, with barely enough pressure to feel.

“Mmm that tickles.” It didn’t really, not like the spot at the base of his toes did, but tickle was as close a word as he knew.

“I know.” And Bull did, because he did it again, and Dorian leaned into the touch, here, among friends, where he could do so openly. Sera’s outstretched tongue was commentary and not censure, certainly not from her perch on Dagna’s lap.

And when Bull rose and extended his hand, correct as any courtier, Dorian took it in his with a nod in return, and they left the tavern together, heads high and hands intertwined.

\--::--

Bull grabbed him around the waist and whirled to sit on the bed, pulling Dorian backwards against him. Dorian curled to keep from smacking Bull’s jaw with the back of his head, then threw his hands out to cover Bull’s arms, snuggling close for a moment before sitting up to undress. Dorian reached for the buckle at his shoulder, to find Bull’s hand already there, flicking it open.

Bull rubbed his hands together to warm them, then placed his hands to each side of Dorian’s shoulder, where the repetitive motions of staff twirling made the muscles there ache after a fight. “How’re the ribs?”

“Mostly healed and you know it. How’s your hip?” Dorian countered. Down to skin, he clambered off Bull’s legs and moved to kneel on the bed behind him. Bull rose to drop his trousers and sat down again, leaning to the side to let Dorian trace the edge of the bruise, dark and swollen but not hot enough to indicate fever.

“Mmm..” he leaned into Dorian and Dorian knew that unspoken request and he rubbed the top and back of Bull’s head, between the horns.

“Hold on, let me… Bull, you’ll need to move for me to get the balm.”

Instead, Bull sagged, overturning himself before going limp against Dorian and tipping him backward onto the bed, pressing him into the blankets with the weight of his own body. “I got it.” Leaving his face pressed into Dorian’s chest, he fumbled blindly with one hand and came up with a small jar.

“Right, right, hold on, I know what you want.” He rubbed scented wax into the spot and Bull went even more boneless, snuffling into Dorian’s neck, not biting, just nuzzling. They’d had the discussion early on about marking, compromising on letting Bull leave all the marks he wanted, but only where they stayed hidden.

“How do you know?” At Bull’s grunt of interrogation, he elaborated. “How do you know to avoid my …” Again, he grasped for the word. Not bruises, no, those were good to press, to rub out the injury underneath, to let comfort creep into the wake left by a flare of pain. He needed a word for the memory of old hurts, whether or not a physical scar remained as a marker. Or maybe he didn’t, since Bull could interpret his silence.

“That’s the good thing about sleeping with the same person more than twice.”

“I don’t, traditionally, _sleep_ with anyone.”

“Okay, then that’s the benefit of learning how to touch someone. More than twice.”

“Thrice, maybe even seven times over the course of a holiday,” Dorian muttered, suddenly contrary.

“You’ve been keeping count? I’d have thought once you’d hit eleven, you’d have stopped.” Bull sucked Dorian’s finger between his lips and waggled his eyebrows ridiculously.

“Yes, well….” When _had_ he stopped counting? He could track back, certainly, though he’d need to confer with Cullen as to missions for precise dates – when had they returned from the Emprise because that was when Bull had greeted him at the gate, which was after the trip to the Hinterlands where Bull and Evelyn sat with him in the common room of the Gull and Lantern and filled that corner with themselves, with brash boasts and over complicated self-congratulatory toasts, banishing the shadow of his father, which was after, well, after his father, which was after the oasis outside that ridiculous temple where Sera and Evelyn interrupted them which was after so many nights in Bull’s bed that splashing in the water was entertainment and not discovery. He’d known Bull’s scars by then, and Bull knew his. As well as his ticklish spots.

“You’ve been learning me?” Dorian thought it should be an accusation, but it came out of his mouth as a question to which he already knew the answer.

“Get the other spot, would you? You know the one.”

Dorian scooped a thumbnail worth of balm and rubbed it in the divot under the back of Bull’s left horn before he realized what Bull had meant. He huffed a quiet laugh, not at Bull, but at himself. Answering silences and unspoken questions, indeed. Yes, he had been learning Bull as well. “I suppose sacrificing the thrill of discovery has some benefits. Slowly, I’ll become accustomed to your uncouth…” he trailed off and Bull rocked his head up, not enough to look up and back at Dorian, but enough to show he was listening. “… Pants.”

“ ‘Vint, if you ever stop bitching about my pants, I’ll quit wearing them.”

“Maker forbid. Full nudity? In the field?”

“Better view than the pants?”

“Granted, but think of the chafing.”

“Aww, you going soft on me?”

“Never, Bull.” Or at least, Dorian thought, not yet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> intended as a gift for Wolfling, for Fandom Stocking 2016.


End file.
